Select Females
by Susan M. M
Summary: Bret Maverick is trying to get to New Orleans, but he is delayed when he is forced to rescue some damsels in distress.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This story, set in the _Maverick_ universe, was originally published in the fanzine A Small Circle of Friends #12, which is a recycling 'zine. Writers took an episode from one show and "recycled" it with characters and situations from another show. This story is based on the episode "The Select Females," from the TV show _The Adventures of Jim Bowie_. It is an amateur work of fiction, with no attempt to defraud the copyright holders of _Maverick_ or _Jim Bowie_. The characters were merely borrowed for an intellectual exercise and a little typing practice.

_**Select Females**_

_**by Susan M. M.**_

**Louisiana, 1875**

Bret Maverick stepped out of the door of the Black Horse Tavern. The gambler was a tall, well-built man, whose muscles were covered but not hidden by the black linen suit he wore. His neatly combed hair was as dark as his suit.

"Good morning, Mr. Maverick." Eli, the teenaged ostler, sat on the porch whittling.

"Morning, Eli. My horse ready?" There was just the slightest hint of a Texas accent in the cardsharp's voice.

"Yes, sir, right around the side." Eli pointed to the left with his pocketknife.

Maverick walked to the end of the porch where a chestnut gelding waited at the hitching post. Eli rose and followed him.

"Fed and watered?" Maverick asked as he rubbed the horse's nose.

"Yes, sir. Take you clear to New Orleans without a stop."

"Thank you, Eli." Maverick untied the reins. To reach New Orleans without a stop was exactly what he had in mind. There was a certain lady waiting there for him to take to the Opera Ball that night.

A tall middle-aged man wearing a top hat and a French cloak walked past the gambler and the ostler. A carriage rolled up in front of the tavern. The older man got into the carriage. The Negro driver cracked his whip once, urging the well-matched pair of black horses into motion. Just then, a pretty blonde girl leaned out of the window.

"Please, sir, please," the girl cried out. She couldn't have been more than seventeen. The man in the top hat pulled her back in. The coachman, wearing livery fancier than most admiral's uniforms, drove on placidly.

"Did you see that?" Maverick asked as he mounted his horse.

Eli looked directly at the carriage, then turned to face Maverick. "What, sir?" he drawled.

"The girl in that carriage seemed frightened. Didn't you hear her call out?" The gambler peered down the road at the carriage.

"I didn't notice anything out of the usual, Mr. Maverick."

"You know, Eli, sometimes it's kind of hard to mind your own business… especially when someone else's business is a pretty girl."

"Yeah, I guess so, Mr. Maverick," the young ostler agreed.

"Yeah." Maverick urged his horse forward.

* * *

As he trotted along on his way to New Orleans, he finally convinced himself that there was nothing unusual about the incident in the coach, just an ordinary quarrel between a headstrong girl and her parents. As he began to turn his mind to the anticipated pleasures of Samantha Crawford and the Opera Ball, there occurred another of those unpredictable incidents of the road.

He saw before him a pony cart in the middle of the road. The left wheel was on the cart. Two ladies were struggling with the right wheel, trying to reattach it to the cart.

Maverick reined his horse to a halt beside them and touched his hat. "Afternoon, ladies, you having a little trouble?"

"And what does it look like, if not trouble?" retorted the older woman. She was gray-haired, somewhat plump, and well-dressed. Her clothes were sensible rather than stylish, but Bret Maverick knew enough about women's fashions to recognize quality materials and tailoring when he saw them.

"The pony cart, _monsieur_, it has failed us," announced the younger woman. She was in her twenties, with dark hair and dark eyes.

Maverick dismounted, too much of a gentleman to leave two ladies in distress – especially when one was a pretty Frenchwoman.

"Failed us indeed, and just when it was needed most," the older woman lamented. Her accent was eastern, Bostonian perhaps.

"Well, can I be of any help?" Maverick asked.

"Oh, how kind of you, _monsieur_. Would you please?" The younger woman looked up at him with her big, dark eyes.

"If you feel you can be of any assistance, it would not be unappreciated," the older woman acknowledged.

"_Oui, monsieur_, to be swiftly on our way is of the greatest importance."

"I'm sure it is. Let's have a look." Maverick walked around the cart. "Well, if you ladies can manage the wheel, I'll lift the cart and you can put the wheel on the axle."

"_Oui, monsieur_."

"Lift when ready, sir."

"Ready?" Maverick lifted up the pony cart. The two women grabbed hold of the wheel, and not without some effort, maneuvered it onto the axle. "Good. Just one thing, ladies, before you go. How you gonna keep the wheel on?"

"Pardon, _monsieur_?"

"There's no nut to keep the wheel on. That's why it came off," Maverick explained.

"A nut?" She looked up at him, puzzled.

"A bit of metal with a threaded hole, _mademoiselle_," the older woman informed her.

"So?" asked the Frenchwoman.

"So it screws onto the axle to hold the wheel on," Maverick explained patiently. "Chances are the nut fell off back down the road a piece."

"It is necessary that we have this nut?" the brunette asked naively.

"Well, without it, the wheel's gonna come off, the next bend you come to." The two women looked so mournful and helpless at this news that Maverick volunteered: "I'll have a look."

Maverick walked down the dirt road, looking for a glint of metal on the ground. The Frenchwoman followed him. Maverick bent down to pick something up.

"You have found it?"

"No, a piece of wood." The gambler tossed it back down.

"Oh, if only I had not permitted Mary Lou to leave with that woman. But she said she was Mary Lou's aunt, so why should I have doubted her?"

"Mary Lou?"

"One of our pupils at Miss Peabody's Select Female Academy, on Chartres Street. You must know of it, _monsieur_."

"The Select Female Academy? I know it, slightly." He had played poker with plantation owners and businessmen whose daughters attended the school. "The young ladies there are so… young."

"Oh, _monsieur_, I am so worried. Miss Peabody has every right to send me back to France in dishonor and disgrace." She looked up at him, wide-eyed. "Do you think she will do that, _monsieur_?"

"Did she bring you over here?" Maverick inquired. He had assumed she was American born, despite her accent. There were many parts of New Orleans where Creole families spoke French at home, and used English only as a second language.

"Yes, to teach the select females the true Parisian accent," she explained. "Ah, but she is such a strong woman, with such control over the emotions. I can not tell if she will forgive me or not. So you see, we must find Mary Lou, do you not, _monsieur_?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm beginning to," Maverick lied, thoroughly confused. He started to walk away from her, looking down at the road again.

She stepped in front of him, and he was forced to stop. "It is so important in so many ways," she said. "Such as the handsome contribution Colonel Carter has promised to make to the academy."

"Colonel Carter?"

"_Oui_, Mary Lou's papa. Ah, he is very rich, and Miss Peabody is so desirous of enlarging the school." She shrugged in an inimitably Gallic fashion. "Ah, but if we do not find her, I'm afraid poor Miss Peabody will never see the handsome contribution."

"Yeah, yeah, I see. That's bad." Bret Maverick was a firm believer in handsome contributions.

"And all because of me, _monsieur_. All because of my foolish trust in people." Her eyes widened, and she raised her hand to her mouth. "I'm doing it again. I'm trusting you…" she pointed at him, "…a man, an American." She muttered something in French that Maverick didn't understand. "What is happening to me?"

"Now, now, _mam'selle_, no need to get upset." He laid a hand on her arm to calm her.

"Trusting people, it is a Christian virtue, is it not, _monsieur_?"

"Yeah, I guess it is… up to a point." A career as a gambler, developing the art of bluffing, had forced him to regard trust as a dubious commodity. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"To be honest, _monsieur_, I do not know, except perhaps I thought you might be able to help." She blinked her big dark eyes at him. "You will help, will you not, _monsieur_?"

"Well, I'd like to help, but you see, I've got someone waiting for me in New Orleans. It's a matter of urgent business." Maverick saw Miss Peabody approaching, and asked her, "Any luck, ma'am?"

"No, sir, and I doubt that the pair of you have had very much either." Her tone – halfway between a maiden aunt and a drill sergeant – made it clear that she knew they had spent more time talking than looking.

"We were introducing ourselves," the Frenchwoman explained. "_Monsieur_, may I present Miss Peabody of the Select Female Academy of New Orleans."

"Bret Maverick at your service, Miss Peabody." He tipped his hat.

"And just what else have you confided in this total stranger, _mademoiselle_?" Miss Peabody demanded coldly.

"Only the reason of our search, Miss Peabody."

The older woman raised her eyebrows in shock. "Really!" She took a deep breath. "Come along, Angelique. I see no reason for further detaining this young man."

"But what about the small piece of iron with the hole in it?"

"Never mind," the schoolmistress told her. She took Angelique's arm and began to lead her off.

"Uh, just a minute, ladies, I don't wish to pry into your personal affairs, but I do know you're in a hurry. I think I can fix your cart… at least well enough to reach the next town. With your permission, of course." Maverick pointed at the dirt road. "We could spend all day looking for this nut and never find it."

Angelique looked up at her employer, appealing with her eyes.

Miss Peabody smiled. "Permission granted." She inclined her head as graciously as Queen Victoria.

The three returned to the pony cart. Maverick pulled out his Bowie knife and cut a leather thong from his saddle. He began securing the wheel to the axle with the makeshift 'nut.'

"This girl you're looking for, what's she like?"

"Oh, she's very pretty. She's about so tall…" Angelique held a hand even with her own head, about 5'3". "…flaxen hair and blue eyes."

"Probably not the same one, but she by any chance wearing a blue dress?" Maverick asked.

"Oh, but of course!" Angelique exclaimed. "The uniform of the academy. You have seen her, _monsieur_?"

"Control yourself, Miss Moreau," Miss Peabody directed the Frenchwoman. Her tone made it clear that _she_ had never had any difficulty controlling herself. "And just where did you see this alleged girl?"

Maverick struggled with the leather thong. "Outside the Black Horse Tavern, about eight miles down the road." He pointed in its direction.

"She was in a carriage?" Angelique Moreau asked.

"Yeah." Satisfied the knot would hold for a few miles, Maverick stood.

"With a woman of middle age?" Angelique continued.

"Yeah," Maverick agreed.

"And a _tres_ tall coachman on the box?"

"Well, I didn't notice the coachman, mam'selle, just the select female." The gambler folded his arms and leaned against the pony cart.

Miss Peabody smiled at his phrasing despite herself.

"This young lady, what happened, an abduction?"

"Ah, no, _monsieur_, an elopement." Her voice softened at the thought of romance.

"Oooh," Maverick said, having a soft spot for romance himself.

"Mary Lou is in love, with Emile Dussard. Such a charming young man," Angelique explained.

Miss Peabody frowned, either at the thought of young love or at her employee's indiscreet confidences. She snapped, "Into the cart at once, _mademoiselle_." Turning to Maverick, she continued more calmly, "Thank you again for your generous assistance, sir."

"Don't mention it, Miss Peabody."

Miss Peabody climbed into the pony cart, as determined and self-propelled as a steamboat. Maverick helped Angelique into the cart.

"This tavern, _monsieur_, would it be– Do you think you could show us this tavern?"

"Uh, well, I guess I could." Maverick glanced down the road in the direction of New Orleans. "Yeah," he said unenthusiastically.

"Naturally, I would reimburse you for your loss of time," Miss Peabody informed him.

"No, ma'am, it's not that. It's just that, y'see, in this deal I'm working on… I got a lot of competition. In fact, if I don't get there on time, I'm likely to lose out entirely." He knew for a fact that Gentleman Jack Darby, his brother's sometime partner, sometime rival, was also in New Orleans. And also interested in the fair Samantha. "You can't miss it, ladies. Straight down the road – Black Horse Tavern. Ask for a boy named Eli."

"Thank you, sir, again." Miss Peabody inclined her head, and Maverick was once again put in mind of Queen Victoria dismissing a subject.

"_Au revoir, monsieur_. I will remember you in my prayers," Angelique promised.

"Thank you, _mam'selle_." Maverick touched his hat. He waited until the pony cart drove off before remounting his own horse. He waved once, then rode down the road in the opposite direction.

He hurried again on the way to New Orleans, trying to keep in mind the charms of the lovely Samantha Crawford, who would soon be in his arms at the Opera Ball. It was about an hour later when he noticed something lying in the road. Ordinarily, he would have ridden on, but this time something persuaded him to stop. As a gambler, he'd learned to listen to his hunches. He dismounted, and picked up the book lying in the dirt.

Maverick's French was limited, but as near as he could tell, it seemed to be a prayer book. The inscription in the front read _'Pour ma petite cherie Angelique – toujours l'amour de sa Maman.'_

He glanced down the road in the direction of the Black Horse Tavern. "No, sir," he told himself. "I'm not chasing after those select females. I got a select female of my own waiting for me."

He tucked the prayer book in his coat pocket and remounted. He could return it to the school on Chartres Street tomorrow, or the day after. He urged the horse forward a few steps, then reined the chestnut to a halt. He thought a minute. He looked back down the road.

Sighing, he turned his horse around and headed back in the direction he'd just come.

* * *

Eli leaned against the pillar holding up the roof overhang. He looked up from his whittling when he heard the horse and rider approach the Black Horse Tavern. "Afternoon, Mr. Maverick. Back so soon?"

"I'm not staying, Eli. I want some information," Maverick announced, not bothering to dismount from his chestnut gelding. "I'm looking for two schoolmarms who stopped by here this afternoon."

Eli looked away for a second. "Schoolmarms? I didn't see any schoolmarms, Mr. Maverick."

"You're lying, boy." Maverick reached down and grabbed the teenaged ostler's shirt, pulling him closer. "Just like you were lying this morning about that girl in the coach." The gambler shook the boy like a terrier shaking a rat it had caught. "C'mon, let's have some truth. Two ladies in a pony cart, where are they?"

Eli turned his head to indicate the direction. In a frightened voice, he confessed, "Out by Spanish Creek, I guess."

"Spanish Creek? Did you send 'em there?" Maverick tightened his hold on Eli's shirt.

"Yes, sir."

"Why?"

"Well, they was looking for a girl, and I figured that's where she is," Eli blurted out quickly.

"All right, let's have it all," Maverick ordered. His voice was firm, but a smidgen calmer.

"A friend of mine came here the other night. He wanted to know if I knew anybody who could help him get his girl," Eli explained.

"Get her?"

"Yeah, from someplace her old man was keeping her prisoner." Eli's words nearly tripped over each other in his haste to confess.

"Your friend named Emile?"

"Yes, sir, Emile Dussard. You know him?"

"I heard of him," the gambler admitted. "Did he rescue her?"

"That's what I don't know, Mr. Maverick, and it's got me kinda scared," Eli confessed. "Y'see, I got these friends from Spanish Creek to help Emile, but I ain't seen him since. They're the ones that drove off this morning in the coach. Name of, uh, Odin."

"All right, Eli, if you're telling me yarns, you'd better not be here when I get back, understand?" Maverick released the boy and shoved him back. Then he rode off for Spanish Creek without another word or a backward glance.

* * *

Maverick raised an eyebrow. There, in the corral, was a familiar looking pony and cart. He dismounted and tied his horse to the fence of the corral next to the Spanish Creek trading post. He walked to the building, a rough-hewn but sturdy-looking large wooden structure. He tapped gently on the door, waited a moment, then knocked again. He was just about to try the lock when the door was opened by a middle-aged woman.

She was plump, in her late forties or early fifties, and considerably overdressed for a backwoods training post. Her black dress was satin, and her bonnet – if Maverick was any connoisseur of such things – had cost at least ten dollars in one of New Orleans' better boutiques. Her tone, when she spoke, was unwelcoming. "Yes?"

"Good afternoon, ma'am." He touched his hat. "I'm looking for the two ladies from the Select Female Academy. Would you tell 'em that Bret Maverick's waiting to see 'em, please?"

"You must have mistaken the place, _monsieur_. Sorry. Good day." She began to shut the door in his face.

Maverick stuck his foot in the door. "No, I haven't mistaken the place, ma'am." He gestured with his thumb. "That's their pony cart back there."

"I must ask you to leave, _monsieur_." Her French accent, which had been barely noticeable before, became stronger as she grew angry. She tried again to shut the door.

Maverick easily pushed it open. "Not until I look inside, ma'am."

He stepped in. A man concealed behind the door brought a heavy stick down on his head, and Maverick collapsed to the floor. The woman shut the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Maverick regained consciousness in a strange bed. He found himself in a room he had never seen before. He felt his head. It was sore, but he would survive.

Slowly, he got up and stumbled to the door opposite the bed. It was locked, of course. He turned to the window. There were metal bars on the window, like on a jail cell. He shook them, but the bars were solid, and firmly set in the window frame.

He stumbled to the bed and collapsed. Then he noticed another door, in the wall opposite the window. Sighing, he walked across the floor, setting one foot before the other with exaggerated care. He tried the knob, but he wasn't surprised when he found it, too, was locked.

Bending down, he peeked through the keyhole. He saw Angelique Moreau, her hands folded in prayer."Well, now, look at this," he murmured to himself. "Mam'selle Angelique. Angie." Startled, she looked around.

He tapped softly. "The door, _mam'selle_."

She turned and stared at the locked door.

"It's me, Bret Maverick, the man who fixed your pony cart."

"_Mon Dieu_!" Angelique hurried to the door and knelt beside it so she, too, could look through the keyhole. "Oh, _Monsieur_ Maverick, how wonderful. You've come to rescue us?"

"That was the general idea, but right now, I could use a little rescuing myself." He ran his hand through his thick, dark hair; his head didn't hurt quite so much as before. He touched the door, examining it a minute. "Stand away from the door, _mam'selle_."

Angelique nodded and backed away.

Maverick stood. He threw his shoulder against the door – not too hard, just testing it. The door didn't give, not that he had honestly expected it to. He tried again, a little harder. Still, the door remained locked. He took a few steps back, and, with a running start, threw himself against the door with all his strength.

The door burst open. Angelique stepped back out of the way. His momentum carried him foward and Maverick crashed against her bed, tumbling onto her mattress.

Angelique rushed to his side. "Oh, _monsieur_, you're hurt?"

Maverick felt his head gingerly. "Well, not any more than I was." He stood carefully and glanced around Angelique's room. Like in his room, the window was barred. "Tell me, where is Miss Peabody?"

"They took her away; I know not where." Agitation made her French accent stronger than usual. "Oh, _monsieur_, we have fallen into the hands of desperate criminals. We shall all be murdered."

"Now, now, _mam'selle_, it's not that bad." He gently placed his hands on the arms of the distressed Frenchwoman, hoping to calm her.

Both turned their heads when they heard footsteps approach. He released her arms.

"They heard you,_ monsieur_." Angelique took a step forward and sank to her knees. Clasping her hands together in prayer, she exclaimed, "Oh, _mon Dieu_, death is imminent." She closed her eyes.

Maverick laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I sure hope not, _mam'selle_." He scurried back to his room, shutting the door behind him as quietly as he could.

Angelique's door opened. Two men peered in. One was in his thirties, a roughly-dressed, swarthy rogue. The other was the middle-aged gentleman who had boarded Mary Lou's carriage at the Black Horse Tavern. Seeing nothing amiss (save a terrified woman kneeling in prayer), they shut and locked the door.

As soon as they were gone, Angelique gathered up her full skirts, rose, and hurried to the door between her room and Maverick's. She put her ear to the door.

A moment later Maverick's door was thrown open. The two men stepped inside, the younger one with his gun in his right hand. Maverick sat on the bed. He looked up as the older man stared down at him, a frown on his lips, his hands on his hips.

"Well, howdy, gentlemen. Mind telling me why you've got me locked up?" Maverick rubbed his sore skull.

The two men shook their heads and left without saying a word.

Maverick immediately jumped to his feet and ran to Angelique's room. He knocked her down in his haste to open the door and dash inside. She plopped onto the table. Her legs were thrown up, revealing several dainty white petticoats.

"_Mam'selle_, I–" The gambler looked around, saw Angelique smoothing down her skirt to cover her unmentionables. He helped her to her feet. "Sorry, clumsy of me."

"My fault," Angelique confessed morosely. "I should not be so curious – another of my miserable sins." In a much more ladylike fashion, she sat on the bed, her worried dark eyes downcast.

"That's not such a bad sin." Maverick pulled up a chair and sat beside her.

"Do not waste sympathy on me, _monsieur,_" she advised. "Others need it more: Miss Peabody and Mary Lou."

"She's here, the girl?" Maverick asked. His greatest fault had always been that he'd had more curiosity than a dozen cats. His pappy had warned him that such a trait would get him into more trouble than trying to draw to an inside straight.

"_Oui_, I saw her, a prisoner, when we arrived, she and her sweetheart Emile," Angelique confirmed.

"I thought you said this was an elopement? Why are they holding you ladies? And me?" Maverick asked.

Angelique spread her arms in a Gallic gesture. "It is beyond my comprending, _monsieur_." She returned her hands to her lap. "I have a feeling it is even beyond the comprending of Emile and Mary Lou." She pointed at him with one lily-white finger. "It just occurred to me. How is it that _you_ are here?"

"I was forgetting." Maverick began patting his jacket, feeling his pockets. "They took my money, my gun, and my knife." He glanced down and saw the prayer book in his front pocket. He reached down and handed it to her. "But they didn't take this."

"Mine?" She stared at him, her dark eyes going wide in wonder.

"Got your name inside, from your mother. I figured it might be valuable to you."

Angelique opened the book and reread the familiar inscription, unable (like St. Thomas) to dare to believe without proof. "It _is_ mine, but where did you find it?"

"On the road, just after I left you. Kind of lucky I was the one to find it, huh?"

"Lucky, oh, no, no, _monsieur._ This is not lucky; this is no accident. This is by the hand of _le Bon Dieu_ Himself." Angelique raised her face heavenward, looking up at the ceiling. "It is a miracle."

"Well, I wouldn't–" Maverick began.

Angelique held up a hand to stop him. "There is no doubt about it, _monsieur._ It is truly a miracle." She closed her eyes. Her lips moved silently in prayer.

The gambler was too polite to contradict a lady, but he thought 'twas nothing but a coincidence, and his inability to mind his own business when a pretty woman was involved. "What we need now is another one to get us all out of here."

They heard footsteps in the hall. Both turned to face the door. Maverick leapt to his feet. Angelique rededicated herself to her prayers.

After one glance down at her, wishing she would offer help of a more tangible nature, Maverick hurried back to his room. He silently shut the door, then stood listening at the crack.

The door to Angelique's room opened. A swarthy, mustached man stepped in carrying a tray with food and coffee. He was unwary, seeing only a frightened woman sitting on the corner of the bed, desperately praying.

Angelique did not look up until he slammed the door shut behind him, pretending not to notice him. "Oh, how thoughtful of you, _monsieur._ You may set it here." She gestured gracefully at the chair beside her.

Scowling at the thought of a prisoner treating him like a servant, he followed her instructions. As he bent down to set the tray down, Maverick burst through the door and grabbed him around the neck. Angelique seized the tray, lest it clatter to the floor and alert their captors. Maverick wrestled with him, forcing him down on the bed.

"_Mam'selle_, turn your back," Maverick ordered. He had one hand on the swarthy fellow's throat, the other hand pulled back, ready to strike.

Angelique did so, and Maverick punched the man's jaw, knocking him unconscious.

"He has fainted, _monsieur_?" she asked, putting the man's unconsciousness in the only terms she could manage, between her sheltered upbringing as a gentlewoman and her limited English.

"That's right," Maverick said, not wanting to disillusion her.

"But when he wakes up, he will cry out, no?"

Maverick nodded. "I'll have to rip my shirt." He shed his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"No, no, no, no, _monsieur._ Not your shirt. You can not spare it."

"We have to gag him," Maverick pointed out.

"Wait," she ordered. Then, half-plea, half-order: "Turn your back, _monsieur._"

Maverick turned around. He re-buttoned his shirt and put his jacket back on. A moment later she handed him one of her petticoats.

"Here. If this is not sufficient, I have a further supply," she confessed, trying not to blush.

"This'll be sufficient. Thank you, Angie." Maverick began to tear the bottom of the white cotton petticoat into strips.

"What did you call me, _monsieur_?"

"Angie. Angelique's just a little long, don't you think? Do you mind?"

She smiled as she helped him tear the petticoat. "No, I like it."

"You can call me Bret."

"I like that, too, Bret."

* * *

Madame Odin, the Creole woman who had told Maverick that Miss Peabody and Mademoiselle Moreau were not there, sat in the front room of the trading post, knitting. With a frown, she glanced at her husband and the woman who sat between them: the unflappable Miss Peabody. Behind her sat Emile Dussard, a handsome young man dressed in the height of fashion, his hands tied behind him. Behind the young dandy stood the elegantly-liveried coachman and the rogue who'd accompanied Odin earlier as he checked on the prisoners.

"For the last time, madame_,_ take that pen and do what I say." The middle-aged man tried to keep his voice calm and reasonable, but frustration seeped into his tone.

"Do your worst, you scoundrel. You shall not make me a part of this odious plot." Her voice, though dripping with disdain, was calm. No brigand, no matter how contemptible, could ruffle the feathers of Miss Peabody.

"Write," he insisted.

"Never."

"Do what he wants, Miss Peabody," urged Emile.

"And who are you to be giving advice, young man? You, who got us all into this?" she asked scornfully.

Emile clicked his tongue, and tried to shrug his shoulders, as much as his bonds would permit. "That's done now. The important thing is to get you ladies safely home. Write what he asks," he begged.

Miss Peabody turned away from Emile and faced forward, unwilling to look at him or her captor. "I shall write no lies for this felonious criminal."

"Your final word, madame?" Odin asked.

"My _final_ word," the old woman agreed.

Madame Odin looked up from her knitting long enough to catch her husband's eye. He walked behind the table and bent his head down so his wife could whisper in his ear. Not once did her knitting needles halt, nor even slow.

Odin turned to the coachman. "Fetch the girl."

Without a word, the coachman left the room.

Meanwhile, Maverick was busy buckling the guard's gunbelt around his waist. It was a cheap, inferior pistol, but at least the man had had a decent quality Bowie knife. Leaving Angelique (safe, he hoped!) to watch the unconscious guard, he snuck up to the storeroom adjoining the main room of the general store. He eavesdropped for a second as the coachman and another rogue brought in Mary Lou Carter.

"Mary Lou!" Emile rose to his feet, relieved to see her unharmed.

"Oh, Miss Peabody, ma'am, I'm so frightened." Ignoring her sweetheart, the blonde hurried to the side of her headmistress. Her hair was pulled up in a long ponytail, which fell down in golden waves. She spoke in a thick cornbread and cotton accent.

"Dry your tears, Miss Carter. Our fate is in the hands of Providence." Neither hysterical schoolgirls nor 'felonious criminals' could loosen her stiff upper lip by a single notch.

"Please sit down, madame_._" Odin placed a hand on her shoulder and gently forced her back into the chair.

Maverick peeked from behind some crates, watching carefully. Between Monsieur Odin, the coachman, and two guards, he didn't want to do anything hasty.

Odin rolled up his left sleeve and displayed a tattoo of a half-naked woman. "Do you see that?"

"Hmph! A vulgar exhibition of bad taste," Miss Peabody declared.

"It has been there for more than twenty years, madame_._ Indelible. Impossible to remove. Tattoo'd there with ink, forever. With ink like this." He reached out and picked up the inkwell. Odin set the inkwell down, walked behind Miss Peabody, and surprised Mary Lou by grabbing her by the hair. "Should I tattoo the message on the beautiful face of this girl, madame?"

Mary Lou looked up at him, her blue eyes wide with fear, too terrified to utter a syllable.

"Or would you prefer to write what I shall tell you to write?" Odin inquired calmly.

"Write, Miss Peabody," Emile urged. "You have no choice."

Miss Peabody's expression fell. She was defeated.

Maverick peeked from behind the crates.

"Write exactly what I say," Odin ordered as Miss Peabody removed her glove. She picked up the quill and dipped it in the inkwell.

"My dear Colonel Carter," Odin began. Mary Lou and Emile looked on helplessly. Two henchmen and the coachman stood behind them. Madame Odin sat on the other side of the table, still knitting. "If you wish to see your daughter alive…" Mary Lou looked up, shocked by his wickedness. "…you will send me the sum of ten thousand dollars."

_Madame_ Odin looked up from her knitting and smiled at the figure her husband named.

"Which sum will be delivered by–"

Suddenly Odin was interrupted as a Bowie knife flew through the air, pinning his sleeve to the wall. Mary Lou shrieked. Maverick leaped into the room, flinging himself at the two henchmen and knocking them to the floor. The coachman beat a hasty retreat. Mary Lou shrieked again. Miss Peabody stood and pushed the table over on top of Madame Odin.

* * *

In the bedroom, Angelique turned her head at the sound of the ruckus. She sat guard over the unconscious prisoner, a broken table leg in her hand.

* * *

Maverick punched one of Odin's henchmen, knocking him back to the floor. Mary Lou raced to Emile's side. Odin pulled the knife loose and turned to use the blade on Maverick. Maverick whacked him with a chair. As he fell, the second henchman stumbled to his feet. Maverick hit him with the chair, too.

Taking a deep breath, the gambler looked around. Mary Lou was trying to untie Emile's bonds. Miss Peabody was pushing the table against Madame Odin, trying to prevent her from getting up. The Frenchwoman struggled vigorously, then bumped her head against the floor and lay still.

Maverick picked up the knife, walked over to Emile, and reached down to cut his ropes.

Odin regained his feet and attacked Maverick. The gambler fell back against the counter of the general store.

After checking one last time that her prisoner was still unconscious, Angelique snuck out of the bedroom to investigate the sounds.

Miss Peabody picked up a chair and brought it down on Odin's head.

Angelique entered the store at that moment. "Miss Peabody!" she exclaimed, shocked at her employer's unladylike actions.

"Take up a chair, Miss Moreau, and smite thine enemies," the headmistress directed. With an air of satisfaction, she dusted off her hands and straightened her bonnet.

Maverick had drawn back his fist, ready to punch Odin. Now he slowly lowered it, seeing no more enemies to smite. Instead, he reached over and shook hands with Miss Peabody.

"As I often say to my young ladies, there is nothing so salubrious as brisk physical exercise." Her eyes glowed with excitement.

Angelique stared at the remains of the donnybrook.

"It was fine while it lasted," Maverick agreed.

Angelique muttered something in French. "Oh, that I should have come in late and missed the best part," she lamented.

"More self control, Miss Moreau, if you please." Miss Peabody was once again using her schoolmarm voice, calm and slightly disapproving.

Mary Lou's useless young swain approached Maverick, extending his hand. "Allow me to introduce myself, monsieur."

"Oh, I know all about you, Emile. I'm Bret Maverick. We better get these fellows tied up while they're still out cold. Get those ropes," he directed.

Emile hastened to obey.

"What are your plans for these criminals, Mr. Maverick?" asked Miss Peabody.

"Oh, have 'em jailed for abduction, extortion, and robbery."

Miss Peabody nodded her approval. "Splendid. And I shall be there to testify against them."

"But will it not be in all the newspapers?" Angelique asked, a concerned note in her voice.

"Naturally. It will be an object lesson to all other criminals," Miss Peabody declared.

"But what will it be to Mary Lou's papa? He will be most angry," Angelique predicted, "not only with her, but with Miss Peabody's Select Female Academy."

A concerned look crossed Miss Peabody's visage.

"What of the handsome contribution?" Angelique whispered.

Miss Peabody hemmed. "On second thought, Mr. Maverick, perhaps it would not be wise to bring these men into court. Could we not give them their just desserts in some other fashion?"

"Let me worry 'bout that, ma'am," Maverick told her as he tied up Odin. "There'll be no scandal."

"Thank you, sir."

Having finished tying up the henchmen, Emile went to Mary Lou's side. He took her hands in his and peered into her blue eyes.

"And there will be no more of that, young man, not while this young lady is in my charge." At Miss Peabody's scolding, Mary Lou lowered her eyes bashfully. "What you do later does not concern me. Out with you now, and harness the pony to the cart." She waved him away.

Emile reluctantly dropped Mary Lou's hands and went to obey Miss Peabody. He blew Mary Lou a kiss.

Angelique stopped him before he reached the door. "My cape and prayer book, Emile."

He nodded and left, before anyone else could give him any other orders.

"And this time, Miss Moreau, you will not let her out of your sight until we are safely home. Hurry along, now," Miss Peabody ordered.

Angelique nodded and escorted Mary Lou to the door. She stopped, turned back, and said, "_Au revoir, _Bret. May _le Bon Dieu_ bless you always."

Maverick waved. "Bye, Angie."

Angelique smiled, and led Mary Lou out.

Dismayed by the familiarities, Miss Peabody turned from Angelique to Maverick. "Angie? Bret?"

"Oh, we kinda got got acquainted. We were locked up together," Maverick explained.

"I do not approve of the use of nicknames. Good day to you, Mr. Maverick." She turned and walked out.

"Good day, Miss Peabody."

* * *

Once more, Maverick rode off, hurrying toward Samantha Crawford and the Opera Ball. He had dumped the prisoners on a steamboat bound for Natchez-under-the-Hill. Just about sundown, he came around a bend in the road, a few miles outside New Orleans. An all too familiar sight greeted his eyes.

A pony cart stood in the middle of the road. Miss Peabody and Angelique were attempting to replace the right wheel on the axis while Mary Lou watched helplessly.

He urged his mount forward and dismounted next to the ladies.

"Bret! Oh, if you but knew how I was praying for your reappearance." Angelique turned to Mary Lou. "Is it not so, Miss Carter? Did I not ask you to pray also?"

The schoolgirl nodded her head.

Without a word, Maverick drew the Bowie knife he had confiscated from Odin's henchman. He cut a leather thong from the trim of his saddle. He gestured to the two schoolteachers to lift the wheel, and then lifted the cart enough for them to return the wheel to the axle. He bent down to tie the wheel in place with the thong.

"Oh, I do so regret delaying you again, Mr. Maverick," Miss Peabody apologized. "Was there not an urgent matter of business requiring your presence in New Orleans?"

"Well, the fact is, I was taking a young lady to the Opera Ball tonight," Maverick confessed. "But I'm so late now I guess she's made other arrangements." He stood and kicked the wheel to test how secure it was. "Miss Peabody, may I remind you that you still have to get a nut?"

Miss Peabody nodded.

"A nut," Angelique repeated.

"Into the cart, Mary Lou," Miss Peabody directed. "You, too, Angelique."

As Maverick remounted, Angelique told him, "I'm so sorry, Bret. If there were only some way I could make it up to you."

Maverick touched his hat to the ladies. He started to ride off, then stopped his horse before it had taken a second step. "Whoa, now, you just said something there. Miss Peabody, I'd like the honor and privilege of escorting Mademoiselle Angelique to the Opera Ball tonight. With your permission, of course."

A shocked expression crossed Miss Peabody's face before she forced her features to regain their usual calm demeanor. "Well, we're both in your debt, to be sure, Mr. Maverick, but I'm afraid–"

Maverick interrupted her before she could say another word. "Thank you, ma'am, thank you kindly." He reached down and scooped Angelique up, perching her on the saddle before him. He nudged the chestnut gelding forward and rode off without another word.

"Young man!" Miss Peabody protested.

"Isn't he just the most divine thing ever?" Mary Lou asked.

Miss Peabody stared down the road after them, then turned and gave Mary Lou a disapproving glare. It was obvious she was going to have to delete Sir Walter Scott's "Lochinvar" from the literary curriculum.

And Bret Maverick and Angelique Moreau rode off into the sunset.

* * *

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

* ~ *

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End file.
